I’m going to attempt to make this short and simple.
My grandmother’s relationship with race is complicated, but it’s also very simple. She is Black.
It’s how she self-identifies, and there’s no type of thinkpiece, viral sensation, or lecture that can convince her otherwise. I don’t mean to minimize other Black people’s experiences or personal feelings around their own Blackness, because those are valid and should be respected, but so should the uniqueness my grandmother’s story and experiences. As mentioned before, she identifies as Black. When she talks about Black people she says “We”, and sometimes I look at the visual responses and reactions of others in the room when they pick up on it. She’s not overtly “Black”, or militant. Around her house, she has things that a self-identifying Black person would have, reflected in art and books — A book of African Proverbs, a small portrait of Barack Obama, art by Romare Bearden. She’s the Black grandmother that will tell you to “pull your pants up”, or while we’re watching a basketball game, shake their head when she sees James Harden’s beard, or D’angelo Russel’s dreadlocks. She’s always preferred a clean cut man in a suit, but that’s another story. She is a gentle woman who was very well taken care of. In her day, she was a socialite, and loved to rub elbows with other upwardly mobile Black people. Needless to say, she self-identifies as Black, although she’s not. The skinny of her story is this. She has Mexican and Native American blood, and was raised by two Black parents in the Black section of St. Louis — my great-grandparents, Thomas and Maggie. That’s her story, and what I’ve accepted throughout my life.
There are some complexities when thinking about how my grandmother lived her life. It’s hard to say that she’s lived “through the eyes” of a Black woman, or that her life is from the perspective of a Black woman, because she hasn’t, and it’s not. I think she’s lived a Black experience, to the point that where she internalizes it. Was it a choice? I really don’t know, but I know that her internal racial make up is solid. With that said, She’ll never know what it’s like to be perceived as a Black woman by society. That’s where the before-mentioned complexities come in. And there are questions that I still have, and always will have.
Sometimes, it doesn’t matter what society thinks of you, all that matters is what you think of yourself, but there is naiveté in that. There are other times where you can feel however you want about yourself, but society has their own rules that will define you, as well as many factors of your life. Then there’s the internal racial struggle, the one that recognizes privileges in Black people with light skin. Although the 5% rule is rarely challenged amongst Blacks, the idea of “passing” has always been a dialog amongst Black people. When it came to passing, my grandmother was also that. She had a charmed life, marrying three times. All Black men who were successful, and were of prominence. She moved out to Los Angeles with her second husband, and had a job working in a senior daycare center. She was by no means wealthy, but she was more or less happy throughout her life. She identified as Black, but there was privilege amongst the Black community by having fair skin, and in most communities of color for that matter. That alone makes you desirable, but she was also beautiful, which gave another set of advantages. I do not dismiss the privilege that she had, which is why her experience wasn’t that of a Black woman, however, her experience and upbringing, was. With all things in her life considered, her idea of her own Blackness was constant.
When the story of Rachel Dolezal broke, it became an instant fodder for the internet, but because of my grandmother, it was something that I looked at a little more closely, as it was a bit of a reflection of my personal life. A non-Black woman, in Dolezal’s case, a white woman, attempting to be Black so much so, she herself believed it. I watched her closely as she attempted to answer questions about her presumed Blackness, and it didn’t take long to see why she became such a joke, especially amongst Black people. It was her uncertainty of her Blackness over everything, which led to her overcompensation of Blackness. Like with anything, truth will spot inauthenticity a mile away, and that’s what made Dolezal, excuse me, Nkechi Amare Diallo such a lightning rod for criticism, amongst other things. Although there are still similarities between Dolezal and my grandmother’s story, and I have to acknowledge that. When Dolezal speaks of trans-racialism, that is also something that I think can be a real thing when thinking of my grandmother. I also don’t think there needs to be a name for it, but I do recognize it, because my grandmother’s upbringing is truly one of a race that was not what she was born with.
Above all, my grandmother’s Blackness was never a front. It wasn’t exploited for the sake of “cool” or used for an attempt to feel marginalized. She didn’t wake up one morning and decide to be Black. It has always been in her throughout her life, and always will be, and that is beautiful to see, or should I say, to know.
